The least we could do is keep our spirits up.

He sighs as he leans back into his chair, gaze wandering over to the skies outside. If he listened closely, he could hear the flow of the river over the continued complaining and Roy’s further questioning. 

He agreed with Roy’s response - they hadn’t been here a day, they were only going to be here for a few days, they could at least try and enjoy the festival before they left. Besides, there was only one boat for the lot of them, something that strange dream made him keenly aware of.

But Ash didn’t come with them, did she? “Why haven’t you left?” He asks, still looking at the clouds. He takes a deep breath, letting the candle’s scent overwhelm his frustrations. 

She stops again, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes at Roy, then Forde. She suddenly seems suspicious and her mouth presses into a sharp line.

"Never mind." She begins pacing again, arms still crossed, and looks up at the ceiling. "I don't know why I let my sister convince me to come back. If it wasn't for her, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I'd be long gone. Now I'm stuck here feeling helpless." She seems to consider kicking the chair again but restrains herself. It's clear that it's this particular emotion that's driving her to such destruction.

"I don't know why everything is wrong. I just... feel like it is, but you can't do much on feeling alone." Her attention flicks back to Forde, once more with suspicion. While the candle is doing its work to keep her calm, it won't last forever and she's already beginning to show signs of agitation again.

"I'd like to investigate why this place feels so off. I myself have had some quiet anxiety about this sort of place, but it's not founded on anything, so I couldn't really be too worried. Who is setting up the festival? Maybe we can start to resolve" he makes eye contact with Forde "...these weird feelings."

Finally, he ceases his hovering, taking up one of the once-upturned chairs that Forde had managed to unbad—er, untopple. He gives Ash a meaningful look. "You can come with us, if you like. Though, that probably seems suspicious of me to ask, huh?"

"And don't bother with that old witch." She sighs. "She thinks my father will shut down the boarding house if she upsets me, which is absurd. She would have lost her livelihood long ago. Sending others up to fight her battles for her..." Ash scoffs and shakes her head disapprovingly, but drops the subject. Instead, she turns to fix her incisive grey eyes on her two not-entirely-welcome guests.

"Why haven't you left Oleander Isle yet? You've seen what it looks like out there. It's completely dead, and everyone acts like nothing's wrong, or it's not as bad as it seems. It makes me feel crazy. Does no one see it? And the festival..."

Her father must be of import; that must be the long and short of this little squabble between the landlady and this reasonable woman. Ash really seems to just be at the mercy of two opposing forces she cannot control... Roy adjusts his headband awkwardly. Boy, have I been there.

The one thing that seems to continue the mystery, besides the ominous grumbling from her pacing, is the source of the commotion in the first place. As much as the island's whole situation is an elaborate mystery to be unraveled, there's a much simpler reason that he's up here at this moment. He steps forward tentatively to the pacing patient.

"We have only just gotten here, as ambassadors from our homeland. We're only realizing things as we see them," he tries to reason with her. Really, it does seem bad outside, but it's not the worst place he's been. It's still a far cry from the dark bowels of Bern's hidden temple.

He ventures further with his words, cautiously prodding at the truth. "What was the commotion I heard earlier? Was it about the festival?"

“It’s no trouble.” He says, though he takes her offer to stop cleaning up. He sits on one of the chairs facing her, head resting in his hand. “We heard the crashes from downstairs, and wanted to check if you were alright.” It’s not untrue, is it?

“We could talk to Ms Maeve for you.” He continues, leaning back. “If there’s anything bothering you about this place. Or if you just want her to stop walking on eggshells.”

He glances at Roy. Even with his repeated questioning, they were no closer to figuring out what had spurred her into such a rage. If the candle’s effects didn’t make her open up, it seemed unlikely anything would. 

"That's alright, Miss Callaghan," he smiles at her.

Forde responds in his own kind, a seemingly half-hearted attempt at negotiations. Roy feels that his own concern is more genuine, but at the very least his companion is trying. Maybe he's not so valiant after all. He does, however, neither accept or reject the claims that the two of them are up here at Ms. Maeve's request.

"It's true Ms. Maeve asked us to talk to you, but I confess that I am more curious to meet you than to..." He searches for the right words, landing on it as his eyes land back on Ms. Callaghan. "... deal with you. I don't mean to represent her, just myself."

“Maybe something’s wrong.” He admits, opening the window. He places a small candle on the windowsill, and lights it. “But throwing furniture around isn’t going to help. Oh-” He turns back. “Roy, could you shut the door?” He didn’t want the scent spreading to the entire boarding house.

Hopeful the candle will take effect sooner rather than later, Forde picks up the chair and places it beside her. “Let’s just slow down for a moment. My name is Forde, how about you?” 

Not that Roy's complaining. It's a prickly situation even still.

At Forde's behest, he does turn to shut the door behind him, though. The scent of the candle begins to waft through the room, and Roy begins to relax, whether he wants to or not. It's a nostalgic smell, dispelling any anxieties he brought with him to the room. A reminder of the airy classroom of Pherae Castle, languidly but studiously sitting in with Lilina and Cecilia...

Forde seems to be on top of things for the moment, too. He's assertive and kind, despite his apparent lack of urgency. He would make a reliable ally, Roy can't help but think-- but, well, those conversation are better saved for more serious situations.

The woman's anguish is concerning, far more concerning than her foreboding words. He knows he can't help the world, the higher the power, so much as he can help each person; so, he focuses on what he can do rather than what he can't.

"Meet me?" A scoff, footsteps drawing closer to the door, but they stop before they reach it. "What in the goddess' name for?"

While still sharp, curiosity has softened the edge in her voice just slightly, and after a brief moment the door finally opens - is thrown open, really - to a young woman in her twenties. She wears a ferocious scowl, her chestnut hair half falling from its bun or whatever she had tied it up into and cascading down one shoulder. Her grey eyes flick over Roy from head to toe. Then Forde.

"Has something happened? My apologies," he starts cautiously. Roy knits his eyebrows. "Dying? This island? Why is that?"

He takes the initiative, though, stepping forward to the door. "Hello ma'am, I am Roy. We're staying in the inn in lower rooms. I'd like to meet you."

The earnesty in his voice is just and proud. There is no attempt to force his way in. It's a far cry to call Roy naive, now, but there is a certain trust in his words that he hopes the woman will pick up on, even through the door. As for the obstacle itself, he is content to talk through it, for the time being.

Ms Maeve is pacing about when they find her, Forde’s not even sure she notices their arrival. Still, he approaches her with a wave and a smile. “I’m surprised you can think over all this noise.” 

He glances up at the ceiling, rubbing the back of his head with a sigh. “Who lives up there? We can have a word with them if you want.”

"We'd like to help you with this, Ms. Maeve," he says gently. "Will you tell us what's going on?"

"Aren't you two kind," she says when she opens her eyes again. There is hardly any gentleness to her, so it's hard to believe that she'd be at a loss against an unruly tenent. "Yes, actually, I would quite like your help. As you can tell, another guest has been making a racket on the third floor all morning. A rather special guest, let me be clear. One who I might guess could be the guest of honor at the festival." She stairs wistfully at the stairs. "I've been trying to decide how I might speak with her without risking the shutdown of boarding house."

Perhaps an exaggeration, perhaps not. Either way, Ms. Maeve seems to be out of ideas. She turns to Roy and Forde again.

Before he can think, Roy has already uttered this acceptance. An unruly tenant is bothersome, but not an insurmountable obstacle, even if the woman in question is some sort of public figure. The sort of person that might be a guest of honor is usually of that sort; and so, they must be of rational mind.

And if not, negotiations aren't exactly foreign to the young marquess. There is urgency and vexation to Ms. Maeve's request, but Roy still only see it as a small problem.

( If it is well-contained , and once-King Macedon’s had uproared like unrelenting embers , smoldering after , only cinders. ) Heavy is the sigh that goes from him , let out freely , the scoff of a knowing laugh on its coattails. 

“ Agreed , the same vigor , “ He said sternly , then turned out for the boardhouse door , looking upon that amber priestess. “ Well then , on to it. “

And whether those flames behind the waking eye came out like fierce eruptions —— or if those dancing , climbing , pirouetting shadows spun out from their safety to envelop them —— his hands would settle , at least , with the heft of . . . 

Hmph. What was that ? A construction beam ? 

“The same vigour.” He nods. As much vigour as he could muster, at the very least. “Good luck out there.” 

He waves Michalis and Celica goodbye (well, he’s not sure Michalis noticed), before pulling himself up from the moderately comfortable chair. 

"Yes, let's. Lead the way," he says amicably.

Especially with the topic of faith, his smile springs to mind the image of another. A purple ruffle of hair above the quiet self-confidence that is knowing oneself... the ease with which all decisions are made, or denied. Thankfully, as the pair make for the innkeeper's reception, Father Saul is nowhere to be seen; instead, the man steps with his own casual compassion. Where Michalis seemed more regal, he would call Forde's cadence to be more knightly. A schoolyard classmate would probably be a more apt description, but Roy only plods along with him down the creaking hallway.

Ms Maeve is pacing about when they find her, Forde’s not even sure she notices their arrival. Still, he approaches her with a wave and a smile. “I’m surprised you can think over all this noise.” 

He glances up at the ceiling, rubbing the back of his head with a sigh. “Who lives up there? We can have a word with them if you want.”

"We'd like to help you with this, Ms. Maeve," he says gently. "Will you tell us what's going on?"

She was no stranger to strange dreams, a nightmares of a future that she was powerless to prevent, and yet... never had there been a voice like that behind it. She runs her fingers again over the mysterious knap of flint in her palm. In truth, something about this entire situation unsettled her, but already the details of the dream were slipping away like sand from the hourglass. There was a sickening feeling in her chest, a premonition of a mistake too late to prevent but still unraveling.

Forde says something that catches her attention, and she tentatively steps forward. "I'm Celica," she offers. "I was a priestess to the Earth Mother for some time." Her brow knits in worry, but she keeps quiet her concerns. "I would lend my aid wherever needed."

Celica was religious though, perhaps she had some connection to his dream. He’d figure it out when it became important, he thought. She seemed worried, but all Forde can do now is flash her a reassuring smile. “Nice to meet you, Sister Celica. Stay safe out there.” 

He reclines further, settling his arms behind his head. The axe he’d brought was good enough for him. “Enjoy the blacksmith’s, no need to wait around on my account.” He’d find something to do before heading off, he wasn’t going to laze around all day. 

(But he’d hardly complain if he could find a task that was doable from this chair…)

He looks to Roy. A marquess… was that higher or lower than a duke again? “How about you? Any thoughts on how you’ll lend your aid?”

Roy observes the idle dialogue silently. Not a bad congregation of people, all things considered, he thinks. Still, there is of course more to meets the eye than the persona one wears on their sleeve.

At Forde's cue, he steps forward again, puffing out his chest to raise his voice usually modest volume. "I will stay and accompany you, then. Our innkeeper seems to be in need as any other." A determined grin licks at the edges of his lips.

"But after, I'll see where my help is best suited. I'm only one person, after all, and I can't do everything." His eyes flit over pointedly to Michalis. "We'll handle different tasks with the same vigor."

It is gruff , the snarl that rumbles from him , and that fist furls to stow at his side , tucked under black mantle and covered by black glove.

And he was quartered in those grounds of machinery and powdering grain under host of the widowed house owner , lodged alongside those who had boarded boat and sunshine-glinting waters to make the journey ( had their three nights been so sleepless , so fruitless , also . . . ? )

His jaw twinges , stretches taut along that bone : had Maria dreamed of fire and tall shadows in that scaled devil's cage ? ( It grows a flame in him white-hot , pushed out through teeth until it the breath whistles , and the ire cools like beaten , amber blade in a smith's dousing bucket. )

He thinks the littlest of Iote's inheritors might find fondness in the festival , but it is an empty , unyielding land , and he thinks it better she did not come. There were no flowers here to pluck , to weave into brocade.

So he idles within the main walls of the boarding house , and that hand that does not flex with the current of pondering thoughts settles on the firm of his hip , slotting fingers into beltloops.

" You lot may call me Michalis , " He declares. " And whether this task sees us as friends or foes is none of my concern , only that this task is finished. "

Perhaps it would come that great reward awaited the willing ( and if not great reward in the tangible , then great reward in the intangible — a legacy restored , honor regained. It mattered not. He would take it as the fighting take up blade , as the desperate pursue and pursue and pursue. )

"I am Roy, Marquess of Pherae." His title is only a pleasantry in this land, where few have even heard of Lycia, but his manners are taut just the same. "It is good to meet you, Michalis. We'll see this done, yes..."

He can't help but trail off as the man mentions their visit as a task. Wasn't he on the boat with him, sailing together from Fodlan? Maybe this is Michalis's way of pointing out his mistake. Doubt hints at the edges of his mind. "If by task, you mean our aid?"

He casts an uncertain look at the other two from their party.

Brow knits in consternation. It (surprisingly enough) isn't the first Hector’s been likened to another, and so he can but presume it won't be the last. More importantly:

"You've an oddly familiar bearing yourself."

He can't quite place it, however.But that is neither here nor there.

"So then, Almighty Mystic, share with us your words of counsel, hm? What is a man to do to prove himself worthy of his people's faith?"

Hector may not have heard the entirety of the redhead's confession to the supposed guru, but he's heard enough. He bristles, arms coming to cross over burly chest in a clearcut statement:

the 'guru' had best choose his words wisely.

... And yet, despite Hector himself being curious as to the answer - for, ahem, no particular reason - he cannot help but frown all the more.

This man had to be the younger of the late Lord Hector of Ostia. Was it really so far-fetched that both his father and Lilina’s would attend the same officer’s academy? Time change aside, hadn’t there been other strange considerations as well? Coincidences do not come lightly to those in high places. 

“...just like Lord Hector,” he breathed, still scarcely believing his words. “It’s an honor to meet you again.”

Roy thought about what he asked. There was no easy solution, no trite, concise answer that would satisfy him, he already knew. So why ask? 

“I’m just curious.”

Roy hoped his words were stronger than his delivery. This man was a phantom to him, having passed away over a year ago now. It was not as seeing a ghost, not quite, but he could not help but fill with melancholy at the notion. He could feel his temples growing cold, and he forced himself to straighten up. He looked back at the guru inquisitively.

The guru closed his eyes. He spoke slowly, and his voice rattled lightly, as if his jaw was connected with but small, delicate pieces. 

However, the more he read of this script, the more he recognized its contents. Not only had he read this before, but it had not even been at Garreg Mach! He was surprised to find that this play was from none than a great Etrurian playwright, from the heart of Elibe. He read through it quickly. The story followed Hartmut and the other Eight Legends during their battle in the Scouring. As it was told, the dragon invasion was resolved with the creation of the legendary weapons. Deprived of learning a new story, Roy sighed, and turned to his assigned partner. 

“This scene recounts the forging of legendary weapons. Would you like to play the part of Hartmut, or the blacksmith?”

If it were up to him, Merric would not involve himself in politics.

He does not believe himself to be good at it, nor does he feel comfortable in such situations. He has been told that he has a nice face suited for politics (whatever that means?) and a manner of speaking that endears and draws people to his side. He supposes he'll take that. Means he can at least convincingly force it out.

No matter what, however, it goes without saying that he lacks experience. Of course he has seen, witnessed, and been a part of all sorts of intrigues already at the tender age of five to seven years of age, but that's... a little different. It's useful experience, sure, but he needs the other kind as well. The more normal one. The one where you try to make good and sensible decisions, and the entire kingdom suffers if you fail.

After all - one day, he and Lord Marth will return to Archanea and the continent will look to his friend for help, guidance and salvation from ruin. And Merric is not about to leave him alone to face this.

And so, when an opportunity to bear witness to politics being done in a time of peace arises, the Sage does not squander it. Besides, it has been quite a while since he last visited the Alliance.

The grand hall where the meeting takes place lives up to its reputation and role. Though Merric has seen plenty of enormous and beautiful buildings in his life, he can always appreciate the style and architecture. But of course, here and now, it's only a fleeting thought.

He takes one of the seats prepared for the guests invited to spectate the conference, and while it is still relatively quiet, he turns to the young man that accompanied him on this trip - no doubt, with reasons of his own.

After all, Elibe’s nations were worn thin after the recent war. The political scuffle that had once been between Etruria and Bern was no more; the current delicate instability must be handled carefully, lest any one nation grow too prideful, powerful, or keen.

Since the head of the Lycian League had been removed swiftly at the start of the conflict, there had begun to be unrest between the different marquesses. Though he knew his father and Lilina did their best to uphold the previous head’s virtues, many doubted the efficiency of this system. Succession from the greater country of Lycia was not out of the question for some nobles, even during this time of uncertainty for the continent; and it was not as if Etruria and Bern could involve themselves in foreign affairs at the moment, with enough rebuilding to do of their own. No, anything Roy could do of his own to help secure Lycia’s future was of utmost importance.

This trip out to the Leicester Alliance was a welcome opportunity to observe a different league of smaller noble houses. Roy had visited many of the different marches back home, and knew most of the marquesses’ families by name. (Though, he hadn’t visited them since he came back from Bern.) Despite their differences, the Lycian League was always friendly enough with him though. At least, when Roy had been but a junior lord. So, quietly wondering if this alliance was as amicable, he seated himself, and waited for the conference to begin.

However, it’s not long before company finds him. 

“Actually, this league of noble houses is very similar to my own country.” He turns in his chair, eyes alighting on green hair. “I guess it’s not as common as I had hoped. Everyone keeps telling me that Leicester is unique in its structure.”

...still, this was definitely weird, wasn't it?!

Because Roy was one of those kinds of people who did think things over. He was the sort to pay attention, to make note of little details. The two of them were night and day, and that's why they'd worked well together: Roy's the guy to strategize, Al's the guy to act. It's not a matter of being offended; it just seemed weird that he'd forget him. Roy didn't seem like the kind of person to forget much of anyone.

...huh.

"...Yeah, alright," Surprisingly agreeable, Al leans back in his seat. Because when it comes down to it, he does respect Roy. Not like he's shy about himself anyway, and hey, maybe they'll sniff something out if they work together. Briefly, he thinks about where to begin—there's a lot he could cover. "Lessee... I grew up in a village in the mountains bordering Bern, but I left when it was about time for me to start learning about the world. 'Cuz it was about time for me to become a man, right?"

Al's brow furrows deeply, finger tap-tapping on his forearm as he recalls. How he'd initially set out in search of the Fire Emblem, in pursuit of his own interests accompanying a man and woman who he'd had no real reason to stick around other than lack of reason not to. He'd been convinced that it'd been the right thing to do on sheer intuition.

At no point had he been proven wrong.

Al spoke so comfortably and assuredly with Roy, as if they had been close friends. And Roy would never turn his back on a friend. He looked to be about his age, too. It was easy to see how they might even have been inseparable. Did something happen between them? He fumbled for any possible explanation, but rationale kept slipping between his fingers. Dark magic-induced memory loss…?

“I think I understand your situation,” he started slowly. “And I’m sorry I don’t remember you, truly, I am. If you know me, then you know I am not one to forget a friend so easily.

“Let me start over. We’ve… probably had many shared experiences that brought us close, in the Etrurian Army, but let’s make some new experiences here!” 

Roy grabbed a roll from his plate, and broke it in half. He handed a piece across the table.

“How does that sound? I’m Roy. It’s nice to meet you, Al.”

even knowing what she was getting into, veyle had severely underestimated just how many monsters she would be facing all by herself. with misericorde in one hand she stares the crowd of monsters in front of her down with as menacing a glare as she can manage. they shouldn't have been any different than getting rid of the corrupted.

but then again, even the corrupted could get you surrounded— especially if inexperienced with their behavior. and veyle was inexperienced with these creatures' behaviors. thus, getting overrun within an instant and seemingly with no way out. "ugh!" veyle raises her arms to defend against the monster that dives into her, pushing back and doing what she can to hurt it with misericorde. she wasn't going to last like this.

Though that enemy had gone down without much struggle, Roy knew it had been by virtue of surprise. This wasn’t the first monster on his path here, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last: even as he heaved from exertion, another was lumbering into the pair’s small clearing. 

As Roy runs past her, he quickly assesses his companion’s build. She seems small, but was evidently dealing with the monsters well enough. The dagger clutched in her hand glimmered faintly. Perhaps it too is a legendary weapon? Without a moment to lose, he continues forward, holding off the monster’s approach with his sword. Excited flames ripple up the blade, lighting up faint reds and oranges in the monster’s dark eyes.

They do not mind it altogether much, except when it grows boresome, or tiresome, or most egregiously, distracting. When they are not attending classes, haunting the back of the room, they are researching.

( A way home - but not only that. The world they are in now is an unfamiliar thing, and they do not like not knowing. )

Today, though, they have a task.

It is late - the candle that serves as the sole source of light in their room illuminates it ever-so-weakly, sputtering low. Ink drips onto the page, spattering blotches onto the page they have half-crumpled over and over.

Hello.

I have been assigned your partner in this assignment. I believe it would ruin the point to attempt to inform you of my identity, so I will not do that. However, without revealing identifying information about myself, I do not know much else to say.

I am writing this late at night. I prefer to work at this time. I do not like bright lights, very much. The sun here is very bright.

Are you from here? I'm not.

This person clearly enjoys their darkness and anonymity.

He reads it over just one more time, and settles into his worn desk. The morning sun shines modestly through his room’s lone window, just enough to illuminate his page. He plucks a nice pen, one that has not yet been used, from the shelf above. With so little to go on, Roy waits yet another moment, collecting his thoughts -- but, the words must be realized sooner than later.

Hello, It’s my pleasure to get to know you in this pen-pal assignment. In respecting your wishes of anonymity, I will also not disclose my identity. For all purposes, I am but another nameless soldier right now. Are you too a soldier? This letter was written in the morning. I myself find the night to be a better time for sleeping rather than writing. I suppose I’m too used to waking up early to use my limited nighttime hours for much else. Likewise, I am not of Fodlan. My home country is quite a distance from here; my journey required several different horses. 

Roy stops. How much information is too much? A long pause passes until his pen returns to paper. Perhaps deflecting to their shared circumstance is the answer, he reasons.